is an ultra simple

almost vegan

fudge with 5

ingredients:

Dark Chocolate

Almonds

Walnuts

Honey

Madagascar Vanilla

each of these...

good for the brain,

and in combination

proven aphrodisiacs

so if you're feeling

a 'lil extra oxytocin

in my writing know

I eat this every day,

& feed it to my fam!

I recently watched Spider, the 2002 film directed by David Cronenberg and found it to be an excellent use of the media. I make no claims to being able to assess the film industry as a whole, or to declare any proclamation about most influence. True my father was an aspiring film director at heart, and even produced a few amateur short films in his youth. After failing admittance to Film School, he was somewhat bitter though he remained forever passionate about cinema, and my sister studied film to compensate, but did not pursue the field further. So, I will admit to having some background.... a  little.

Spider, demonstrated a keen awareness of the ever important element of Timing, and a masterful trickery in visuals. The film had for me the intense intimacy of Krapp's Last Tape, a film version that I had seen years ago, the original featuring Patrick Magee (who Samuel Beckett specifically wrote the part for in this one-man play). In that script, there is the brilliant use of the recording device. In Spider, the gimmick involves ambiguity/clarity in audio and visual, to powerful effect. Metaphorically, a writing on the mind, if you will...

I was painfully aware of the labor of each passing moment, and the intense focus on small things (obscured from the audience) being given by Dennis Cleg, the mentally unstable protagonist. The pacing quickened in duration of the film, gradually, along with slight of hands that brought home the conflict of the man known as Spider. The pet name given to him by his beloved mother. It was clear to me from the beginning that he adored his mother and detested his father, specifically for how he undermined her true spirit.

It stands out as a critical moment, when his Mom retells a story about a mother spider who's work is done after setting up the nest and laying the eggs. We feel as if his whole personhood is in opposition to this proposed ending. He obsessively threads, fibers and words, tying all things back to his mother, whose philosophy is Reality.

In accord with this adopted philosophy, her poetic being and filial affection diminish quickly as Spider ages... instead weaving her life around a Dad that is absorbed in the physical not the figurative. The key moment illustrated when Mom tries to serve a meal sweetly expressing how much she loves when we-stay-home-together, and Dad rises pushing away the plate with disgust and declares he's had enough of this place.. this place where he is most obviously hardly at... and Mom begins to change her self to meet him half way, eventually decaying all the way into a sad alcoholic demise.

We witness this commencement with old and young Spider spying at the door way to Mom's bedroom. Admiring herself in some new flimsy dress, she turns with a disconcerting giggle, and asks "Do you think Daddy will like it?" ....and  little Spider runs from her, in painful angst as old Spider gawks at the whole of the scene unraveling.

The grown person of Dennis Cleg (Spider) is inserted into the reliving of childhood memory throughout the film, and we have the distinct impression of perspectives being skewed... the words in his little brown notebook eventually take on clarity for the viewer and look like nothing more than gibberish!! The women in his life all begin to look like one woman, Mom (played by one actress Miranda Richardson).

Gas an exceptional allusion in this plot as it evokes the idiom of being gassy---no not like that! but as chatty--- we notice with a cringe that his Mom has all but stopped talking to him!! And he is grieving this loss of words without being able to adequately articulate the essence of the absence that is so tormenting him.

The remaining twist, which I will not divulge any further, to prevent spoiler for those who haven't seen it... Is who is responsible for the Murder? And did it occur in fact or only as a mental snap...?

I've no idea if this film left as much as a residual trace of influence on the film industry, but it did leave a lasting impression on me. I am as compelled on viewing this film for the first time yesterday, as I was years ago impressed on viewing Last Year in Marienbad, another film to be commended for the visual and auditory narration, underscoring the tricks that the mind and memory play on our perception of Reality.

Thanks for reading.

9

stands

as the final man

on the diving

board

Poised

when everything

has had its fill

and its negative!

take any number

Times the lonely figure

and it all returns in

the affirmative

Regard:

9 x 1 = 0+9  = 9

9 x 2 = 1+8  = 9

9 x 3 = 2+7  = 9

9 x 4 = 3+6  = 9

9 x 5 ..and on on!

Add a little something

to the back bone

and see what

forms in the

mind and belly

of the beast:

9 + 1 = 1+0  = 1

9 + 2 = 1+1  = 2

9 + 3 = 1+2  = 3

9 + 4 = 1+3  = 4

and more see..?

subtracting/dividing

never cool in

operation....

so no sense

in wading

that deathly

pool

9

is

already

diving

into 10thcycle

- - - - - - - - - -

always

ALIVE

Vicarious experience is hard work to which perhaps not all souls are suited for... It involves two components, or three if that is how you prefer to count it. It requires of course the Observer and the Observed; and one thing more! Awareness of Observation!!

That is to say Metacognition on the part of the Observer... the Observed being allowed a passive role.

Without this aspect of awareness no vicarious processing occurs. The root of the word is vicis, meaning an interchange or substitution carried out. Note the active. It is the difference between a person staring at a pond, and a person wondering what's in the pond. They both see the water, the fowl, the wilderness, and feel the breeze, and smell or even taste the humidity of the surrounding landscape. But the second, by that momentous leap of imagination has already teleported and entered in, now imagining the cold, the damp liquid, the murky ground beneath, with algae clinging between the toes of the feet. Maybe even had a moment of panic, submerged under, before resurfacing... Same for reading a book. One reader understands the meaning of the words, paints a mental picture even; Another feels the wording with psychosomatic precision.

My thinking in posing the question (phrasing of which abysmal my apologies!) was that Sensitivity requires training and maintenance. Hence, a fight. In the way a knife needs the sharpening stone to restore its edge from time to time. A reminder to myself that we get dull. Not bored, but dulled. It's not about who or what we see outside, but how we process on the inside.

I have been really struggling to keep spirits up these last few years, for no apparent reason, as life is rewarding and full. I have a wonderful, loving artistically gifted husband, an affectionate brilliant son, a calm place to live, demanding but meaningful work... so sensitivity and creativity should be full tilt... but I find it slipping...and I wonder, is it I that have I grown less sensitive? are my powers of empathy fading? am I lazy in not seeing things in their unique intricate compounded richness?

I feel a wall between me and the outside.

And so, a certain tristesse. I remember when I was quite young, I would blush profusely at any provocation drawing warranted or unwarranted attention to myself as Observer of the world around me. Somehow I was ashamed to be seen as seeing... My closest friend at the time, who is now passed, said to me with a grin: "Would you rather be a rock?"

"YES!" I wanted nothing more than the stability and reliability of a rock, through and through. Imperturbability. He laughed sympathetically, while I cried bitterly. Some years later, my affliction passed, and NOT without my noticing. I noticed alright. And I mourned it. I remember in horror what I had foolishly and spitefully said, and thought: "This is it. This is how it begins... this is my decline, and my just punishment. I am losing my Sensitivity."

Naturally, I comforted myself so that I could carry on, and put up all sorts of prompts and supports to ensure that I could at least pretend I was compensating for my loss with rigorous self Discipline. I worked hard to feed the Vicarious.

But so it begins... I am convinced. It begins at different points for each of us-- the losing of our higher order abilities. No longer perceiving the phantom limbs that tie us to all Experience. Hence, my question to you in this challenge about the worth of The Fight, for the Life within.

* * *

I love the physical book, so when we speak of Publishing that is my preference... in the long run.

In generating my own day to day writing I am satisfied with online formats, because I am not focused much on permeance as on the practical discipline... I'm content to produce the content, even if it will just languish in a drawer or on a shelf or dissipate in virtual space.

I suffer from sensory overload and it seems that creating artifacts helps me encrust the things which have crept too close to the skin. However, when it comes to other people's work, I want to be able to take my time and turn paper, page by page in any tangible format (zine, paperback, hardcover, etcetera).

So personally Publishing to me means... a home business prompted by my adoring husband who puts so much faith in my creative being (as you can read on his Prose posts!). Our company is called Bunny Village Press. It's direct print to purchase publishing, middle manned by Amazon, with no overhead, and no stock piled copies. The art, design, layout, editing, writing is done in house... We've put out three books, and have two additional in the works, one of which I hope to wrap up over Spring Break next week. I regret very much that I can't breath as much life into the venture as I would like because I work full time, and have a toddler (: the previously mentioned Rémy Niko who will be three next month :) but still reassure myself that I can do better, one day, one day! ...and for now we accept and give thanks for this Snail's pace as a success in itself. Forward motion a sign of continued momentum... God bless!

I have no particular affinity for birds. I know because there are individuals in my extended family who have maintained sincere lifelong fascination for the sight and sound of the species. Nevertheless there are two that stand out to me: the Hummingbird and the Owl. These are dear to me because of other people's love.

I will focus on the Saw Whet, though I greatly admire the Great Grey and the Screech. It is the Saw Whet that is paramount in my imagination.

You see I had read a "true story" that imprinted itself on my mind as an archetype for which to strive in my own life. It was about a man, a writer/ researcher/ illustrator, somewhere in the Northwest (maybe Minnesota, maybe Manitoba). I don't recall his details, because the story to me wasn't about him at all.

He used to take regular walks through the forest, alone in the dark. Presumably to clear his mind and acknowledge the divinity of Nature's expanse. He was of course aware of the nocturnal creatures watching him from the peripheries, owls, coons, bats, wolves... but was quite startled, and delighted, when a Saw Whet owl alighted on his shoulder one evening and began to accompany him routinely on his nightly forays. The man was already a bird-o-phile, with particular esteem for owls. He felt a tremendous sense of awe and honor to be graced in this noncommittal way night after night, for a number of years-- I don't recall exactly, the lifespan of Saw Whets averaging 9, and I'm pretty sure it was more like five or six.

On reading this, as a teenager, I wished ardently that I could be blessed by so wild and natural a visitor. But as I grew older, the perspective of the story took on an entirely different angle for me--- with all humility, I became the Saw Whet. Not just once, but three or four times in my life. It's hard to explain how parallel lives can so nearly intersect, but they have across age and cultural divides. I have been honored to perch on the arm of several Artists in different disciplines with tender beating hearts and mutual regard--- Touching the surface of Creativity, without transgression, and with no artificial ties.

No, not

a Fighter;

an Igniter:

and all are

Welcomed

to Sit . . .

....or Add

their Fuel

to the Fire.

Far and few between

are the shadows on paper

that appear as what i mean

to myself

and more so beneath

our surfacing

of suspended

breath

lucky are we

to whom

an hour or two

is forgiven

in the sweeping

of the arms

and slipping sword

of the Exorcist Angel

that makes a way

for each new

beginning

at every

second

of the day

with such

precision

In dialog

we punch

the clock and

in our dreams

make it visceral

If you can still

feel my fingers

tracing your neck

you know what

I mean by digital.

Reaper, there was something in the Atmosphere...I thought you were Sad, and if it wasn't you, then perhaps it was a mutual friend? and if so I trust that your honorable self will discretely redirect. As a fact, I had posted this poem nowhere, having been mostly ghosting--- moonlighting in a job that is drawing life blood from within daily. But fortuitously one night quite recently, I found this draft of mine scrawled in black, on a red graph paper pad, and felt compelled to share. The actual date of the writing falls somewhere between Oct 11 - Nov 16 2022. (I'd been tired, careless, negligent; my regrets! I can't peg it down with more exactitude, though I suspect its penning is closer to the turn of the month. 10/30? Seems fitting.)

In any case, soon after finding this scribbling of my own, I saw your posted challenge for works gone missing from 2022. And here, Dear Reaper, is what I'd wrote:

Condolences

My friend

I have always

held you in esteem

...is 8 years the marker

at which to leave off---

w/ Defeat?

surely the Pater

would object!

You raised

a defiant pen

and it says:

"Sign Nothing," yet!

I myself

am scarred

like a slug---

stains trailing

from an opening

left too long ajar

---what can I?

I tip this missing cap

as random passer'by

so that some words

might greet paper,

and carry on...

I'm sharing it with you, word for word even though not a Repost per se, because I wanted to let you know that this note, pitiful and vain as it may be, unblocked my writing that had gone under key in late 2020.

So-- Thank You & Sincerest Greetings--- I am glad to see you are making your way!

In the Silence, there was only Cowardice. My own. Bared like a tribal death mask. It is to be sure not the romantic soul that one would hope to uncover behind the clawed vitalistic marks-- but instead the calloused workaholic who casually admits that the Heart has many loves within the Universe, and just one Master: the Work, Itself. Indeed it seems almost criminal. And that is where my tongue has faltered. Upon this desktop alter, I want to say how much I admire the private initiative... The self-sacrifice of the performance Artist, the fight of the Entrepreneurial Spirit! If this speaks to you-- please be humble, and gentle with those unalike. Yes, you are among the proud few. Many would stand as firm if they could, and then won't, for arbitrary reasons. I know because that is me. Ninety-nine percent in, and unwilling to commit to taking that self-lit path to wherever it leads. It is a fundamental lack of Faith (in self, in the greater Good, and in the Almighty). It is my Silent shameful grief, the grasping at the Emptiness, that is Me. True, in this wilderness where I am adrift I am seeking a bond of the like minded, and better yet of those who are striving to advance beyond this dissonance. And I'd like to believe that there is a friendly soul or two here who understands me beyond the confines of the sketchy script. That's it. I have said too much out of hand. I return to blank inward Silence, with its soul splicing Loudness.

Silence challenge @Midnightstars